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“Affirmative, Doc. If we’ve got an enemy with a Gift involving death, who better to take him out than Death himself? We need the Grim Reaper over here, STAT.”
“Roger that, Sarge.” I hear the slam of a vehicle door. “Just pulled up to the old hospital. I’ll send Grim soon as I find him.”
“You’ve got a Grim Reaper and a Doctor,” the kid says. “You’ve got a guy called Brawn—I’m guessing he’s, like, super strong or something.” His lower lip pushes out, as if he’s impressed. “That’s cool. If your crew has powers, too, you might stand a chance.”
“We’re doing better than standing a chance,” I say. “Most of Raptor’s crew is dead or dying as we speak.”
“Sweeeet,” the kid says. “You guys aren’t messing around.”
“No,” I say. “We’re not. What’s your name?” I’m tired of thinking of him as “kid.”
“Justin,” he says. “But you can call me Ghost.”
“So, you’re—dead?” Steel asks.
“I’ve asked myself that question every day,” Ghost says. “Haven’t come up with a good answer yet. But enough about me. If you want to take out Raptor and Lazarus, you’re going to need more than a few guys with superpowers.”
“How ’bout a stealth chopper armed with missiles?” Recon puts in.
Under the tangle of hair falling over his forehead, Ghost’s eyebrows go up. “That ought to do it. Just make sure you don’t miss.”
Chapter 18
Jud
We Got Him
Finally. It’s happening. I’m dying.
After days of wishing for it, I know it’s the real deal this time, because this time, I hear an angel calling for me. Not that I think I’m heaven-bound. Nah. I didn’t live a good enough life for that. My luck, it’s probably a demon from hell luring me into the fiery beyond with the one voice I would follow anywhere.
“Jud! Jud, where are you?” Somewhere far away, Cora is calling for me.
I want to go to her. I want her to take me away from this place. This world. It’s a shit world. Almost no people left. Lawless assholes can flourish. Honest men, like my brothers, have to constantly fight against them. The world before the Virus wasn’t particularly fair, and the one after is even worse.
Take me away, kitten!
My heart cries out to her, even though my mouth is too parched to form words and my body is too weak to devote oxygen to anything other than taking my next ragged breath.
I hear a door screech, and it sounds like the heavy, metal door Lazarus’s skinhead minions dragged me through who-knows-how-many days ago. No way to tell time anymore. Even if there were windows in this place, the light of day is lost to me forever.
Best I can guess, I’m in a cell in some kind of old psych ward. On the way into this dump, I remember being dragged through a noisy, steel door and down a long hall. I was still paralyzed from that fucker Rigor, whose Gift completely disables a man’s ability to move. While I was limp and unable to fight back, they tossed me in this bare ten-by-ten room with nothing but a cement floor and padded walls, and when the door slammed shut, the screech-thud of a steel bar falling into place sealed the deal.
Early on, I tore away the padding on the walls in search of some kind of loose panel or weakness, but the walls are reinforced concrete, and the ceiling is too high for me to explore. The place is locked up tight. I wasn’t getting out of here unless someone let me out.
What I didn’t expect was that they wouldn’t feed me. Or give me water. Or anyplace to piss or shit. It feels like it’s been at least a week, possibly more, and no one’s so much as cracked the door to give me a slice of bread or a sip of water.
I’ve pissed into a drain in the floor, and I’ve shat in the corner like an animal, but I’m long past pissing and shitting now. I’m starving to death. I should have died of thirst after a few days, but a misguided will to live had me drinking the blood of the occasional rat when one would sneak in through the drain and scurry over to check me out. Tried eating one a few days in, but I couldn’t get past the texture. The thirst, though. Thirst will make you do things you never thought you’d do. Thirst will make you desperate.
Until you give up.
For a while now, the rats have been safe from me.
I think I’ve been in and out of consciousness. I base this assumption on the fact that bouts of wakefulness in this cell are sometimes relieved by daily security rounds at Eagle Peak, or sharing beers around a campfire with my brothers, or making love with Cora. In fact, I’m not sure whether I’m dreaming or not when I hear the angelic voice again, louder this time.
“Jud! Are you in here?” She’s close. Possibly only a few cells down.
I part my lips. “I—Ihhmm—”I try to say I’m here, but my mouth doesn’t work.
